


Lamb to the Slaughter

by LadyJirachi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Demon Victor Nikiforov, Incubus Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Mild Gore, Power Dynamics, Smaller Yuuri, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24771397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJirachi/pseuds/LadyJirachi
Summary: "What about my hunger?" the guest asked innocently. His long dexterous fingers held Yuuri's rounded chin in a marginally firmer grasp this time, making sure that the smaller boy faced him. "What will you do aboutmyhunger, Yuuri?""You're still—""—hungry?" the guest asked sweetly. "Oh, yes, Yuuri. I am."Yuuri gazed, his heart pounding madly, into the exotic cobalt eyes. "Then… I'll—I'll do anything."
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	Lamb to the Slaughter

Yuuri peered interestedly out of the murky windowpane into the pure white snow drifting outside. People dressed in flickering cloaks bustled down the streets briskly, paying no attention to the small foster home that Yuuri was currently peering out of. Bits of milky snow splattered the foul sidewalk, only to be crunched on every now and then by the thick boots of an impatient passer-by. Opaline moonlight illuminated the muted grey stretch of pavement, and the lurid yellow glow of the surrounding streetlights mixed the pale light into a spectacular swirl of light colors.

The boy's cheeks were flushed with the cold despite being in the slightly warmer interior of his home, his thin knuckles clutching the windowsill. Dark curls danced across his pale forehead, his dark brown eyes extraordinarily large on his rounded, heart-shaped face. He was dressed in an overlong coat and a pair of dark shorts. Despite the fact that he had already entered his adolescence, his height and stature remained decidedly unremarkable.

"Yuuri," a woman's voice rang out. "It's late, and you should sleep."

The boy let go of the windowsill obediently and turned to his foster mother, who stood before him. There was no beauty in her face, but something about the haggard features struck distinction. She reached out, taking his chubby hand in hers.

"You shouldn't have eaten the cookies last night," she chided. "You know the cookies and milk are left overnight on the table for Santa, not for your own consumption. You were the one who wanted this tradition, remember?"

Yuuri bit his lip. "I didn't eat them last night."

"They were missing this morning—"

"Santa," he said, through a pale tired mouth, "must have eaten them, as he should."

Heavy footsteps abruptly thundered from the long spiral stairs above, and a look of fear fleeted past the woman's face. Her fingers tightened over the boy's hand, whose owner remained placid and almost lifeless in contrast.

The towering length of a large man appeared down the last steps of the creaky stairs, his thick black beard swishing like a whip across the broad expanse of his chest and his beefy arms swinging authoritatively. It was his beady eyes, though, that elicited terror. Cold, merciless orbs beneath bushy brows bored into his wife's cowed face.

"I told you," Takeshi spoke, his loud voice echoing frostily throughout the hush of the drawing room, "not to entertain that boy last night. It was a fucking childish charade."

Yuuri stated calmly, despite the fact that his foster father had not even addressed him directly, "I didn't eat those biscuits."

His words were like a trigger setting off an already ticking bomb. The man's head jerked, his skin creasing as his thin lips pulled back into a snarl. Through his thick beard, Yuuri thought vaguely, those thin lips were cold and nasty.

"You lying, disgusting little boy," Takeshi hissed, "We fork out money to feed you and clothe you with the little amount we have, and last night we even kindly decide to entertain your silly delusions and pull out valuable food—and you choose to eat every single piece of the oat biscuits, every single one of them, not just from the table but also the larder—"

"I didn't eat it!" Yuuri insisted, ignoring his mother's taut hands over his palms. "Santa must have—"

" _Santa!"_ His foster father threw back his head and laughed mockingly. His beady eyes flashed. "Santa Claus, the big jolly man, ransacked our larder, ate all our oat biscuits and went back up the chimney! That absolutely makes sense, doesn't it?"

The large, calloused hand shot out so suddenly that no one expected it; Yuuri's raven head whipped back at the reeling impact of the blow.

His foster mother let out a terrified, startled cry as she reached forward and clutched her son's stumbling frame. Already an unruly bruise was beginning to form on the side of the small boy's pale creamy cheek, and a trail of blood peeked from his tiny nose. He breathed heavily, lips trembling, dark waves of hair askew, but there was no fear in his face, just stark weariness.

Takeshi withdrew his hand, looking grimly satisfied at the blow he had struck the boy. There was no mistaking the terrible lack of affection in his ruthless countenance. He took one step towards his foster son, who never, ever flinched, and exhaled a breath that was pure menace.

"There is no Santa Claus," he said, "In this world, there are only thieves and ingrates—like you."

* * *

_Crunch._

Yuuri had been sleeping restlessly beneath the tattered bed sheets on his bunk, his fists fastened over his pillow and his dark hair falling with abandon over his delicately closed eyelids as he dreamt fitfully of snow, skies and the ringing of merry laughter.

Large hazel eyes opened abruptly, but he kept his expression calm despite his thudding heartbeat. Sedately he loosened his fingers from the thin fabric of the pillow and sat up, wincing a little from the smarting bruise on his face. The bunk creaked from beneath his slight weight, and he blinked at a shaft of moonlight that crept through his window, illuminating the cherubic planes of his face.

The slight noise of vague crunching echoed into the air once more.

Yuuri turned his head, and the first thing that crossed his mind was:

_Where did that thick velvet armchair come from?_

He certainly didn't remember any armchairs ever being in his cramped bedroom. But now there was a large plushy one in the center of his room, in all its darkly crimson shade and vast size, looking brand-new instead of patchy and threadbare like the rest of his meagre furnishings. It even looked as if it had always been there all along, even though it stood out like a sore thumb. The boy blinked; despite his unsettlement and bewilderment, he was not frightened. Not of the mysterious, new-looking armchair, at least.

_Crunch._

The creature sitting in the armchair, however, was another thing entirely.

Yuuri didn't scream. He just stared, wondering to himself if he was still dreaming, after all.

He stared at the shock of silky white hair that gleamed in the dimness of his room. It seemed to glow like a halo above the armchair, almost like that of an angel. A long slender hand, raised at the side of the thick chair and gloved in red velvet, dangled a half-bitten cookie from spidery gloved fingers.

And then Yuuri was aware of _eyes;_ as if they had just opened for the first time in the inky darkness blanketing the room—beautiful blue eyes the color of skies in his dreams just a few minutes ago, eyes that were icy and warm at the same time, eyes that gleamed at him from the chair. And those brilliant cerulean eyes, framed by long pale lashes, belonged to a face: a frightfully youthful face with pretty glossy lips spread into a Cheshire Cat's smile at him.

But the Cheshire Cat was nothing but a story—just like Santa Claus.

Despite knowing that, Yuuri opened his mouth and spoke. "You ransacked our larder yesterday."

There was no accusation in his voice, no reproach, just a matter-of-fact statement.

The guest's innocuous smile grew, his glossy lips spread in a picture of coy innocence. For the first time Yuuri noticed black laced boots casually hanging off one arm of the chair.

"You were only supposed to eat from the table," the black-haired boy said mildly, as if he was talking about the weather. "Taking everything from the larder is a no-no."

The man in the armchair slowly brought the half-eaten cookie to his smiling mouth, and Yuuri watched; for an unknown reason entranced by every movement his night visitor made. The mouth opened, revealing a sharp row of white teeth before they closed over the cookie's brown surface.

_Crunch._

Yuuri flushed suddenly, not knowing why.

His guest's blue eyes continued staring at him with casual interest while he chewed thoughtfully on his cookie. Pure silver-white strands of gossamer hair slid over his forehead as he tilted his head to one side, as if the new angle allowed him to observe Yuuri better. Then he spoke, moving his legs off the side of the armchair into a proper sitting position.

"Yuuri." The name rolled warmly off the stranger's tongue in a slow, languorous caress, and something about the affectionate lilt of his deep voice reminded Yuuri of the tinkling of sleigh bells.

He peered dazedly—disbelievingly—at the stranger again, who was still beaming that angelic, radiant smile at him. The smile threatened to blind him, and he tried to think through the growing fog in his head as to why the stranger in his room would know his name.

"Do you hate me for eating this?" the stranger asked innocently, accompanying his statement with another dainty bite of the cookie, his sleek pink tongue curling out casually to sweep the residue cookie crumbs back into his mouth.

"No," Yuuri said bluntly, trying to ignore the fact that his knees had gone slightly weak. "I don't hate you for anything."

The stranger continued smiling, the iridescent blue in his eyes disarmingly bright in the room. He raised his scarlet-gloved hand, the one that was not holding the cookie, and beckoned Yuuri over with a graceful flick of his gloved fingers.

"Come here, Yuuri," he cajoled quietly. "Please?"

Obediently, Yuuri walked forward like a moth to a light; there was absolutely nothing in the world that would have stopped him from approaching the stranger.

Before long he stood right before the plush armchair, his brown eyes timidly probing the sharp, aristocratic cheekbones of the other male's face, his porcelain smooth skin, his angular patrician bone structure and finally the teasing slant of his brilliant blue catlike eyes. Yuuri's gaze bashfully lowered, and saw what he could not properly see before; the man was dressed in a long dark red cloak the same color as the armchair, allowing him to easily blend in into his seat.

He could not explain, but he felt like he knew this stranger from another world altogether. The man before him felt like a manifestation of his dreams—of the elusive laughter he heard in those dreams, the warm golden fires building in fireplaces, the pure flecks of beautiful snow twirling in the air like fairies, and the sweeping morning skies which he often gazed at through the windowpane.

They all but meant one thing to him: _escape_.

A slender long-fingered hand reached out and touched his chin, gently bringing his face up and shaking him from his stupor. The stranger cooed at him in a delighted singsong lilt, cookie still dangling from his other hand. "Will you allow me to have more of your cookies in the future, Yuuri?"

"… No," Yuuri finally said honestly. It was difficult trying to maintain his composure with those penetrating sapphire eyes on him. He couldn't bring himself to lie, not when the stranger seemed to be stripping him naked with his bright, unblinking gaze. "My family needs to eat as well. We're often hungry."

For the first time since his appearance, a fleeting look of blankness crossed the male's striking features. Yuuri stilled at once, fearing that he had offended his intruder. The white-haired man's face was now quite blank, before the sides of his lips abruptly curled again.

"You're so filial," he said, and something about the way his mesmerizing eyes danced made Yuuri uncomfortable. Then, despite the mirth in his eyes, his companion pouted petulantly, his lips shining a glossy pink in the darkness. "Are you saying your family is far more important than me? Is that it?"

"No." Even Yuuri's answer surprised himself. "But my family and I are hungry. You're not."

At that, the visitor's sapphire eyes darkened. His slim gloved hand, which was still curled on Yuuri's chin, gently brought him closer, allowing the boy to see every outline of his long silvery lashes.

"You don't think I'm hungry, Yuuri?" the visitor said softly, his aqua-blue eyes boring into hazel brown ones. "Now what on earth makes you think that?"

Yuuri swallowed audibly, his cheeks flushing, but he did not back away. He could not, even though the man's grasp on his chin was feather-light and it would've been more than easy for him to break free. But the stranger hadn't used any physical means to pin Yuuri in place thus far—he didn't need to.

Not that Yuuri had to worry about it, for in the next second his mystery guest had released him. The guest smiled a cryptic smile before reaching out the same gloved hand towards the dark-haired boy.

"Won't you take it off for me?" he implored beseechingly, his tinkling voice taking on a soft, silken and hypnotic quality. A spellbound Yuuri didn't have to ask what he was referring to; he simply knew.

Quietly the small boy tugged off the red glove with cautious diminutive fingers, and something about the velvety texture made him shiver. In a few seconds, the scarlet material fell away to reveal a delicate, slender hand, with long pale digits that shone like porcelain in the moonlight. It wasn't large, sinewy and rough like his foster father's hand, and despite his better judgement Yuuri found himself being slowly lulled into a sense of security at the sight.

The guest's bare hand rose and gently, ever-so gently, caressed the side of Yuuri's blushing, cherubic cheek. The man's ungloved fingers softly traced the ugly dark smear on his milky skin, and Yuuri shivered, unable to stop himself from reacting to the curious, yet almost tender touch.

"Who did this to you?" the guest asked, his blue eyes very bright as he studied the bruise.

"No one," Yuuri whispered.

His companion leaned forward, so that his gossamer stands of silvery hair touched Yuuri's flaming cheeks and his pink lips ghosted across his ear. "Liar, pants on fire," he sang, and Yuuri jumped, his heart racing. "Don't you know that children who are liars don't ever get presents for Christmas, Yuuri?"

Slightly dizzy, Yuuri's lips parted, but nothing came out.

Without waiting for a response, however, the man continued caressing Yuuri's pink cheeks, before weaving nimble fingers into his silky dark curls. "You're so pretty," he breathed reverently into his ear, his ultramarine eyes shining as the black-haired boy flushed at his praise and proximity.

Hazily Yuuri was beginning to understand why the guest had wanted his glove removed—for the tantalising lure of skin against skin that Yuuri, too, enjoyed immensely, even if he couldn't bring himself to admit it aloud. For some inexplicable reason, it seemed they were both equally drawn to each other.

"But," his guest said unexpectedly, ripping him from his reverie with a suddenness that made him start, "I don't enjoy lean meat, no matter how pretty it is."

_What?_

A disconcerted Yuuri tried to ask what he meant, but was cut off when the half-cookie was suddenly presented to his small lips.

"Eat," the guest said, and he smiled sweetly at Yuuri again, his tenor voice guileless and saccharine.

Large brown doe eyes widened as he stared at the remains of the offered biscuit, jagged from where the guest had previously bitten into it.

_From where the guest had previously bitten into it._

Without further hesitation he bit eagerly into the cookie as well, somewhat floored that it was still warm and crispy, as if it had just come out of the oven. It made no sense given that the cookies had been left for hours in the larder. He wolfed it down hungrily without finesse, craving more of its rich buttery heat. Fresh brown crumbs sprinkled out along the sides of his neck and the collar of his shirt.

"Are you still hungry, Yuuri?" the guest asked curiously, once Yuuri had finished gobbling up the cookie.

The raven-haired boy shook his head automatically.

"What about my hunger?" the guest asked innocently. His long dexterous fingers held Yuuri's rounded chin in a marginally firmer grasp this time, making sure that the smaller boy faced him. "What will you do about _my_ hunger, Yuuri?"

"You're still—"

"—hungry?" the guest asked sweetly. "Oh, yes, Yuuri. I am."

Yuuri gazed, his heart pounding madly, into the exotic cobalt eyes. "Then… I'll—I'll do anything."

With a single sweep of the guest's arms he had brought Yuuri's smaller frame onto his lap, his dark red cloak wrapped around both of them in an embrace that felt just a little too tight. Then, in less than a heartbeat, the guest's mouth descended upon the slender column of the younger boy's neck, gently suckling the residue crumbs from his delicate alabaster flesh.

The half-eaten cookie fell onto the wooden floor, crumbling and disintegrating into smaller pieces at the impact.

Yuuri moaned lightly, unable to control himself. The greedy mouth traversed up along his neck, its velvety tongue raking up the remaining crumbs along his skin and firing up his nerves all at once. Unconsciously Yuuri buried his tiny hands into the exquisite silver-white locks of hair, wanting, _needing,_ to touch the man that held him. A soft laugh rumbled from the intruder's throat, the sound reverberating up along Yuuri's side, and he trembled a little at the sensation.

The other male's lips slid up Yuuri's jaw, sharp teeth teasingly nipping at his skin, sending frissons of heat unfurling along his skin.

Then the guest stopped, and like Yuuri, his breathing wasn't all that even either.

"You know, Yuuri," he said softly. "Cookies don't really sate me at all."

Yuuri's hands tightened over the lustrous ivory hair, his drunken gaze unseeing. "Then… what does?" he croaked, though a tiny little part of his already had an idea.

A broad smile curved the mouth against his jaw, the man's eyes gleaming like sapphires. Without hesitation, he slanted his glossy lips over Yuuri's own awaiting mouth. The boy's large brown eyes glazed over with shock at the unexpected suction of the guest's mouth over his, and he emitted a choked keening sound. The resulting sensation was immediate; the kiss blanked his mind and seemed to reduce his brains to mush, as if the guest was prying his soul from his body with those glossy lips. Never in his life had he ever felt anything as addictive and toxic as this.

A millisecond later, the guest broke off the scorching kiss, leaving a disoriented Yuuri breathless and weak.

"Stand up, Yuuri," he said. At Yuuri's increased confusion, he graced him with a dazzling, angelic smile, his musical tenor taking on the silken, persuasive quality from before. "On the chair. Please?"

Yuuri didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to argue with that smile and that siren call of a voice. With his companion's help, he maneuvered himself clumsily into a standing position with his feet resting on the cushioned surface between the other male's spread thighs. In this position, he realised with a jolt that his groin was at the level of the guest's face, and he sucked in a sharp intake of breath at the unnerving discovery.

It seemed this was exactly what the guest wanted, because the next thing he knew, the zipper on the front of his shorts was pulled down, and his pulse spiked when he felt those long slender fingers curling around his half-erect member.

"Wai—" Yuuri gasped, his cheeks flaming.

"I fed you, Yuuri," his guest said sweetly, "so I'm afraid you're going to have to feed _me_. It's only fair, isn't it?"

Before Yuuri could answer—before he could so much as utter a word—he felt a smouldering heat engulf his cock, and the heat proceeded to effortlessly sheath him all the way to the root.

He arched his back at once at the onslaught of toe-curling pleasure, dimly aware of long-fingered hands splayed around his hips to steady him. Despite the coolness of the guest's hands, his glossy mouth was a hot, ruthless vacuum around his small cock, and Yuuri had to bite back a scream of sheer ecstasy.

This wouldn't do—if he made any loud noise his foster parents might hear. The last thing he wanted was for them to come into his room and see him with his cock down a mystery man's throat.

The guest seemed to sense his fear, for the corners of his otherwise preoccupied lips moved just the slightest upwards. The next thing Yuuri knew, one of the guest's hands went around the crimson glove Yuuri was clutching—the one he'd removed from the guest—and tugged the glove free from his grasp.

And then the guest raised his arm and, to Yuuri's shock, shoved the glove unapologetically into Yuuri's mouth. The dark-haired boy stood there, the velvety cloth obstructing his mouth and muffling whatever cries that threatened to break free as the cruel suction around his cock intensified like a merciless vice. He didn't even need to thrust; it was evident his mystery guest perfectly anticipated every one of his unspoken needs. Those shockingly strong, delicate hands—one gloved, the other ungloved—returned to his hips to slowly draw his cock back and forth into the tight, wet mouth with mind-addling strokes. In that moment, he almost feared he would splinter from the excruciating euphoria he was in.

" _Hnn!_ "

Stars erupted in Yuuri's vision as the pressure in his lower belly boiled over and he started to tip precariously over the point of no return, his hazel eyes rolling to the back of his skull. A molten-hot pleasure spread across his body like wildfire before he erupted unceremoniously into the guest's inviting glossy mouth with uncontrollable sprays of come. Both his knees buckled, but the hands on his hips kept him firmly on his feet.

He could only writhe like a fly on a web as his companion fed on him and bled him dry of his come.

With the glove lodged in his mouth, Yuuri couldn't breathe properly either, and with the lack of oxygen heightened by the high of his ferocious orgasm, he felt everything in his vision swim away into oblivion before he collapsed into a druggish, feverish blur of delirium.

He knew he was there then: on the exquisite, aching brink of escape.

A few seconds later, the armchair was gone. It was as if it had never been there, along with the mysterious stranger that had broken in.

And as the empty tattered bed sheets rustled, it was also as if Katsuki Yuuri had never been there.

* * *

Sunlight filtered into the windows, stirring a couple who lay beneath thick sheets on the bed. They gazed at each other sleepily, Takeshi reaching up to scratch his bearded chin. It became glaringly obvious that something was wrong then, and he froze.

He stared. She stared.

They both stared at what remained of his hand, and at the emptiness that replaced it. Even as they looked on in horror, dark blood dripped from his amputated wrist, sending a gruesome crimson trail along his naked flesh.

The hand, his right hand with which he did almost everything with—including strike his own foster son—was gone. It was as if someone had painlessly sliced off that hand in his sleep.

There was nothing painless now.

Even a few miles away, the sounds of terrified screaming could be heard in town.

**Author's Note:**

> Probably no one is wondering this, but anyway, Viktor didn't kill Yuuri. I'll just clarify that!
> 
> Thanks for reading. x


End file.
